Questions
At midnight the night my son was born my daughter woke and called me to her room. “Mama, why do birds have feet?” “Do birds eat olives?” These pressing questions woke her from her sleep just as my labor pains began.
The day we told our kids we were getting divorced my son, then 6 asked “where will my toys go?”, “will Santa come to both houses?”, “how will the tooth fairy find me?” My daughter had no questions that day, only silence.
Now it is mostly me asking the questions. “Do you feel ok when you’re with him?”, “are you upset that he monitors everything on your phone?”, “how can I make things easier for you?”, “how can I help you find your voice?” Mostly, there are few satisfactory answers.
I have so many questions they eat me up sometimes. I’d give anything to be a fly on the wall. To see for myself what I know intuitively but have no proof of.
These questions keep me up at night, make me question my own decisions and lead to even more questions and even less answers.
My children’s childhoods are slipping by and I long to talk about birds and olives and feet.
